


Job 8:7

by skruffie



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon-Typical Violence, Execution, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Revolutionaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27076258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skruffie/pseuds/skruffie
Summary: "And though your beginning was small, your latter days will be very great."Casey's descent into the Neath, spanning from 1889 to early 1891.
Kudos: 1





	Job 8:7

**Author's Note:**

> More 2015 writing. These were originally posted in three separate parts but here I'll group them into chapters. They're not the most favorite of my writing that I've done but I think they're still okay! I struggled for a long time trying to figure out how Casey would have made their way to the Neath, especially if it was done as an arrest and incarceration in New Newgate prison, but I came up with a little something. Teen and up rating because in later chapters it goes into an execution scene but it's not toooo bad? I think? I don't think it's nearly graphic enough to warrant the extreme graphic violence but there are also scenes and descriptions of blood and violence.

_The Surface, 1889-1890_

There’s an itch in the back of my throat that won’t go away and my head is splitting, but there are still at least six hours left to go in my shift. The women around me work quickly; beads of sweat dot their faces and make little loose hairs stick to the flesh. A few of their faces are red and slack, and it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest as I’m not feeling so well myself. There’s a sickness going around the textile mill, but I imagine myself to be machine: moving parts, unfeeling, spinning twine. It almost helps.

The callouses on my fingers are nearly opalescent, and I start to get wrapped up in a feverish daydream. Sweat turns to diamonds in the light. The fabrics we’re working on become elegant drapery, lining a great hall, and we’re all dressed in our finery. Tinkling laughter overrides the sound of the machines. A woman, decked in exquisite ivory, smiles at me and for a moment I forget to breathe. She lifts an elegant glove, and I bend forward to kiss the back of her hand before those amazingly long eyelashes bat once, twice, and I’m lost deep in that gaze–

 _“Hellooo_!” She shouts, and I’m startled out of my reverie. “Cassie, are you there?”

We’re both wearing modest dresses without a single shining jewel on either of us, but her smile is still just as radiant, if not tinged only slightly by exhaustion.

“Sorry,” I say with a small laugh, though in my gut I feel the familiar burn of shame. “I was somewhere else for a moment.”

She smirks, going back to work on her sewing immediately. “Where were you?”

I flex my aching fingers and try not to focus on the fine features of her face. My cheeks are burning. Surely, it must be the fever.

“I’m not sure,” I finally reply.

–

Her name is Maude. Her husband, an equally tired-looking man, is waiting for her outside the factory as we step outside. The air is cool in the evening and I take greedy deep breaths, as if that could clean out the stifling air of the factory I’d been breathing for several hours. On any other normal evening, they would walk with me to my very meager place of residence before departing to their own home, but the look on Maude’s face tells me that she’s cooked up some kind of alternate plan.

“Charles and I were wondering if you would like to join us for supper tonight?” She asks, patting her husband’s arm thoughtfully.

I’m looking between the two of them, blinking in surprise, and Charles laughs. “You look so shocked!” He remarks, and I can feel that my ears are red. She is always pleasant to work with, but a friendship outside of work?

“I don’t want to intrude…” I start to say, but Maude puts her hand up.

“It’s an invitation, not an intrusion.” She says. “Come with us. We’re splurging, and a meal is best enjoyed with great company.”

–

Our evenings stretch into weeks, months, and I am invited to dinner quite often. The initial feelings I had while drawn to this woman are occasionally and unceremoniously forgotten when I watch just how in love she is with Charles. I can see the way they both look at each other when the other exits the room—it’s only a small moment, a fraction of a second where the muscles around the mouth might twitch or something like a sorrow goes over their eyes. The minute changes. Distantly, I can’t help but wonder if that’s how my face looked when I used to watch Vincent.

Our conversations are always full, and Maude proves herself to be quite progressive in her way of thinking. The factory conditions are deplorable, she says. Women deserve better. I take the word “women” and swallow it with a gulp of wine. Charles nods in silent agreement, the thin tendrils of his pipe smoke puffing out from under his moustache, and chimes in with how the pay is stretched thin all across the board. I’m still not clear on what it is he does for a living, but I catch him looking thoughtful and distant at times. It’s almost as if he’s ready to start a new plan.

Our talks expand to cover new subjects—we speak of the romance languages, of music, of church-hymns. I try not to mention where I’m from, and give only vague hints about my history prior to working in the factory. Eventually, as time passes and their trust in me grows, they start to speak of London. I learn that there are forces that reign over the city—creatures, not even people—that rule the citizens and keep close attention to everything from law to trade. The way that Maude and Charles speak of them casts a shadow over their eyes. Their voices grow tight with anger.

I’m not to trust the Masters, nor any of their allies, if I ever go to London.

–

“You haven’t spoken much on your previous life,” Maude tells me over a bowl of soup. I put my spoon down and think it over.

“How do you know I had such a life before this?” I ask politely, and she titters.

“You are very secretive,” She explains. “I find that most private people had a previous life or two. We’re friends here,” She clasps Charles’ hand. “if you ever wished to discuss it…”

I swallow, my heart pounding. I did not want to speak of Vincent. “I had a brother,” I start to say. “We were seven years apart, but despite the age difference, we were close. He—he’d been murdered a couple years ago.”

Maude’s face is stricken. “What happened?” She asks in a whisper.

“He went out to get some firewood and didn’t come back,” I say. “I found his body in the shed. Throat was cut.” Maude puts her hand over her heart.

“I’m so sorry,” She says, and I believe her.

“The strangest thing…” I continue, staring into the soup bowl. “is that it happened in December, and yet there were these rose petals scattered around his body. Not deliberately, I think. Like they might’ve been dropped by accident. Do you believe a murderer would be careless enough to leave them there on purpose?”

Charles and Maude exchange the tiniest of glances before she leans forward to give me a sympathetic look. “Let’s hope that none of us encounter a situation in which we must ask that question ever again,” She says. “…I can’t speak for your brother’s murderer, of course…”

“You know…” Charles says softly. “It’s very strange indeed. Not necessarily the time of year, but the presence of the petals themselves. Is this not the first time we’ve heard of a murder with similar circumstances, Maude?”

Slowly, I look up at Clarence’s face. Maude is giving him a thoughtful look, squinting like she has trouble seeing the details on his face.

“It rings a bell,” She finally says. Something seizes in my insides, and I press my fingernails into the palms of my hands to steady myself. “Did you keep any of the petals?” She asks.

I shake my head. “I… didn’t have time to collect any,” I say. “I figure the constables would have taken care of that.”

“What if you described them to me? I could perhaps illustrate them for you.”

I open my mouth, but I’m not sure how to reply yet. “…Why would you do that?” I ask.

“Well…” She picks up her spoon, but doesn’t do anything with it. “Was his murderer ever caught, even with such an interesting clue left at the crime scene?”

“No…” I’m still confused.

“Have you ever considered trying to find his murderer yourself?”

Despite the conversation, I smile. “I am not a constable,” I say. “I have zero detective experience, and besides, what would I even do with him once I’ve found him? Or her?”

“That’s for you to decide,” Maude replies. “At the very least… I could illustrate the petals for you as a reference, and you could take them down to London. There’s all the manner of curious botany experts to be found there.”

“Botany experts _underground_?” I ask with a laugh.

“That’s why I call them curious,” She says, giving her spoon a twirl against the tablecloth. “You would be surprised what is found in the Neath.”

I lean back in my chair. “How is it you know all this, anyway?” I ask. “London isn’t exactly an easy carriage ride away, not on a factory worker’s salary.”

“I used to do work down in London,” She replied. “Charles and I both. It’s where we met, actually,” She turns to give him a smile.

“And we still have good friends down there too,” He adds. “A bit more well to-do, as they can travel back and forth between here and there, but… oh, good, this is a good segue.”

“Segue into what?”

“We wanted to ask your help with something,” Maude says. “I’ve always admired your ambition in the workplace, and perhaps maybe you could put your speed to good use. Your cunning.”

Charles continues. “We have some messages that we’ve written out for some of our London friends,” He explains. “It’s information from here on the Surface that is very vital to them, but because recently their own avenues were cut off, we need a Surface runner to deliver them.”

“Did I ever tell you that I am not a postman either?” I reply with a smile.

“We don’t have anyone else we can ask,” She says. “And we can arrange for your passage there.”

I’m quiet for a few moments, idly stirring the soup spoon around in my bowl. “Is it illegal?” I finally ask.

“Not particularly,” Maude says. “You trust me… don’t you, Cassandra?”

That flush is back in my face again. I do.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply.

Both of their expressions light up. “Oh excellent!” Charles cheers. “The Masters wouldn’t even expect this! A fresh face, a fresh start!”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Maude says with a smile. “We’ll start her off small.”

–

The carriage drops me off on an empty street. There isn’t even a breeze to rustle the stray hairs falling out of my braid, nor to hide the shuffle of footsteps that could just barely be heard down the road. I straighten myself up, thinking confident thoughts, and start walking toward the sound of boots on the cobblestones. A mustachioed man stops and waits under a streetlamp, checking the time on his pocket watch.

I approach him slowly, unsure if this is the correct person to meet or how to ask. The man glances at me, giving me a quick nod, but he doesn’t walk away. He’s staring intently. Waiting.

“This is such lovely weather today, isn’t it?” I finally ask. He nods.

“A lovely day for change,” He replies.

An interesting answer, but I’m still uncertain. “Is this where it all begins?” I ask.

“Where _what_ begins?”

“… The plans,” I say.. “Whatever Charles and Maude are after.”

“Ah, you’re their new runner,” He says with a smile. Relieved, I step a little closer and pull an envelope from my sleeve. He accepts the envelope carefully, as if picking up a delicate object, and tugs at the corner of the paper.

“Are you sure you should be opening that here?” I ask, glancing around. There was still nobody in sight. The man scoffs a little, pulling the pages out.

“It’s fine,” He says. “There’s nobody here. Ah…” He starts reading the first page. “Yes, this order will be easy to obtain.”

“Order?”

The man pockets the envelope, and then brushes the edge of his coat aside. Handcuffs dangle from his belt, and he undoes them in one swift motion. “Turn around and face the wall, please.”

“What is this?” I cried out, seized with terror.

“You’re under arrest.”

“What?!” I shout, but the man grabs me by the shoulder and turns me around, placing one of the cuffs on my wrists.

“Revolutionary propaganda, assisting in obtaining incendiary materials, it’s all right here.” The cuffs click into place, and two more constables step out from a nearby alleyway. “Your friends are being picked up as we speak, though they’ve been given a much better deal.”

“How is that possible?!”

The constables start walking me toward their hansom. “We’ve been keeping watch on this anarchist cell for months, and were just closing in when their pathway was interrupted. Your pals didn’t see any way out and dropped us a tip in exchange for a lighter sentence.” He explains.

Too stunned to speak, I just stare at the grit and grime in-between the bricks of the buildings. “What was in that envelope?” I croak.

“You don’t even know? Goodness,” He laughs bitterly. “You just handed me a request for bomb-building.”


End file.
